From behind my door, Princess Consuela meowed. Once. Sharply. It was her “I agree, and also I’m still hungry” meow.
I went back inside, checked the weather on my phone like a normal person, and began getting ready for work with the comfortable certainty that I would never need to interact with Newspaper Robe Man again.
Narrator voice: He would need to interact with Newspaper Robe Man again.
I was three hours into my shift at Barbacks when my phone rang.
Not buzzed. Rang. Like, the actual phone function that no one under forty uses unless someone is dead or in jail.
I almost didn’t answer. I was mid-story about my latest Hinge disaster, and Jacks was doing that thing where he laughs so hard no sound comes out, which is my favorite reaction to achieve, and I wasn’t about to interrupt it for a phone call.
But the caller ID said PALMS AT BAYSHORE MGMT, which was my apartment complex, and apartment complexes don’t call you at 5 p.m. on aTuesday to tell you you’ve won a prize.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Kwon? This is Terri from Palms at Bayshore management. I’m calling to inform you that there’s been a water event in your unit.”
A water event.
Like my apartment was hosting a pool party.
Or my bathroom had decided to throw a rave without my consent.
Or the plumbing had looked at its calendar and thought,You know what Tuesday needs? An event.
“I’m sorry, a water event?”
“A pipe burst in the wall between your unit and 4C. There’s significant water damage to your bedroom, your living area, and portions of your kitchen. Maintenance is on-site now and—”
I didn’t hear the rest because I was already moving, phone pressed to my ear, apron ripped off, keys grabbed, and Jacks yelling, “Benji, WHAT—” as I blew past the bar like my hair was on fire.
“My cat,” I said to Terri, or possibly to God. “I have a cat. Is my cat okay?”
“Sir, I’m not sure about any pets, but maintenance reported that the unit is—”
“PRINCESS CONSUELA,” I said, as though Terri should know who that was, as thougheveryoneshould know who that was. “She’s a sphinx. She’shairless. She has anxiety, Terri. She doesnotdo well with change. One time I moved her water bowl three inches to the left, and she didn’t speak to me for a week. If your water event has traumatized my cat, I will—”
“Sir, if you could come to the unit, we can assess—”
I was already in my car.
The drive from Barbacks to my apartment normally took eleven minutes. I made it in seven, which I’m not proud of—except I absolutely am. I parked crooked across two spots (sorry, Terri) and took the stairs three at a time because the elevator in my building has the urgency of a government employee on a Friday afternoon.
The hallway outside my apartment smelled like wet carpet and broken dreams.
Terri, a woman in a polo shirt who looked like she’d been having a significantly worse Tuesday than me, was standing outside my door with a clipboard and an expression that said she didn’t get paid enough for this shit. Behind her, through my open door, I could hear the sounds of industrial fans and, distantly, the unmistakable shriek of a cat who had been victimized by the concept of water.
“Princess Consuela!” I shoved past Terri (sorry, Terri) and into my apartmentand—
You know in movies when the hero walks into a disaster zone and there’s that slow-motion shot where they turn in a circle and take it all in while dramatic music plays? This was that, except the dramatic music was the squish, squish, squish of my sneakers on what used to be my floor, and the soundtrack was Princess Consuela screaming from the top of my refrigerator like a gargoyle having a psychotic break.
My bedroom was destroyed.
The wall between my unit and 4C had basically vomited water across everything I owned.
My bed was a swamp.
My closet—oh, God, my closet, where my clothes lived, where my sequined jackets and my vintage band tees and my carefully curated collection of pants that made my ass look like a conversation topic all coexisted in peaceful harmony—was a wading pool.
